Virtue, according to the Greeks

You don’t even have to be Christian.

Huh?

So, at this point, I expect there are two groups of reactions to that sentence. First, from the Christians, I expect some flavor of “What do you mean you don’t have to be Christian?” And from the non-Christians (whether atheist or adherents of other religious traditions), “Why would you even ask that question? What does Christianity have to do with it?”

Here’s the thing. The virtues I’ve been studying arose in what’s called the Western philosophical tradition. Greeks like Plato and Aristotle wrote about them, and the early Christians picked up their ideas and ran with them. In developing the older, pagan ideas of virtue – ideas, by the way, which don’t fit neatly with the Jewish heritage of Christianity – they connected them to their theological notions, and significantly added three new virtues that were mentioned in the Bible: Faith, Hope, and Love.

The original Greek virtues were called Cardinal Virtues, since (like the cardinal directions on a compass) they point you in the right direction. The new ones were called Theological Virtues, because they are seen as gifts of God.

So I’m a Catholic myself, and I have no problem with some virtues being gifts from God. But I have big questions about how it works.

To start with, the virtues seem to overlap one another, or even replace one another. The obvious example is Charity trumping Justice: do you really need duty if you’re always going above and beyond duty?

At a slightly deeper level, it’s a little hard to see what’s particularly “theological” about the new virtues. After all, the goal is the same, isn’t it? All the virtues aim at making our lives more fully human, at helping us become who and what we’re meant to be. And you don’t have to believe in Jesus or have the life of the Holy Spirit in your heart to see that love is a good thing, that hope is important, even that faith – in the sense of trust and faithfulness – is central to living a properly human life.

And since I’m trying to build a career as a teacher of this stuff, shouldn’t I be able to explain it in some crystal clear way?

So here’s what I came up with.

The perfect cup

Maybe a royal Greek's coffee mug?

Now the goldsmith takes the cup to the king’s steward, who admires the cup. And the goldsmith is proud, and says, “It’s the perfect cup. You can’t get a better cup than this.”

But the steward says, “It’s excellent, no doubt. But it’s not perfect yet.”

The goldsmith is, understandably, heartbroken. “I can’t do anything more to improve it!” he cries.

“Of course you can’t,” says the steward. “But come with me.” And the steward leads the goldsmith to the palace’s cellars, where the royal vintner is maintaining the casks of wine. The steward hands the chalice to the vintner, and commands him to fill it with wine.

“Now,” says the steward, “it is a perfect cup.”

But the vintner laughs. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not perfect yet!” And he hands the cup full of wine to the steward, and tells him to drink. And as the steward tastes the wine, the vintner says, “Now that is a perfect cup!”

Perfection pointing to further perfection

So the cup itself has a kind of perfection in itself, but that perfection is directed toward the further perfections of being filled up, and being drunk from, even though it cannot achieve those perfections without something beyond itself.

Likewise, I can become a good human being in myself and by my own power; but being a good human individual is directed toward being a member of a community, toward receiving from others and giving to others. But these are not things I can accomplish without those others.

To go further, from the Catholic point of view, this shows how theologians can say that we are both created to share God’s life in heaven, and also utterly incapable of achieving that communion by our own power. A cup can’t be full unless wine is poured in from outside; but it first has to be a good cup, so that it will hold the wine that is poured in.

I hope this image is useful to someone else. It’s certainly been useful to me.

When: 10:30am, Sunday 20 March 2011
Where: 5062 9th Avenue NE, Seattle – the downstairs room in the school across from the church

Here’s a chart I’m putting on the handout:

I expect that’s perfectly clear to anyone who thinks exactly as I do. The above organization is (as far as I know) my own invention. If anyone out there actually knows stuff about virtue ethics and thinks I’m barking up the wrong tree, or am just barking mad, please drop me a line and correct me. I’m working stuff out as I go.

Anyway, if you want to know what I’m talking about, come hear me talk!

Second, and far less importantly: I’ve had tech troubles with my old computer for the past few months. Random crashes and so on. It finally became intolerable, so I have a shiny new laptop. (Okay, it’s actually a matte finish.) Now I have to constantly remind myself that cool new toys do not equal happiness.

“Yes, I love technology / though not as much as you, you see / but still, I love technology / always and forever…”

This is not the only bar that matters

I am, tragically, that all-too-common combination of lazy procrastinator and idealistic perfectionist. This means that whenever I want to do something, I am both overwhelmed at the size and/or difficulty of the undertaking, and despairing of ever being satisfied with what I have done.

This applies, depending on my mood, from tasks as great as writing a twelve-volume epic novel (which really is a gargantuan task) to duties as tiny as brushing my teeth. Most of the time, thankfully, my ambitions range through more middling territory: cleaning my apartment, writing a decent blog post, finishing a chapter or a short story. That sort of thing.

Even so, I have this irrational expectation that I should somehow achieve some ultimate and final perfection. There’s a part of my that truly believes, if I have brushed my teeth well, I should never have to brush my teeth again, because I shall have achieved dental perfection.

Did I mention that this expectation is entirely irrational?

Fear of lowering my standards

Now, when someone points out to me the insanity of this notion of perfection – even when the someone who points it out to me is me myself! – a defense springs up. That defense is: “I don’t want to lower my standards.”

This is a logical fallacy. It’s known as the Red Herring. That is, it’s a distraction from what’s really going on. Specifically, at least in my case, it’s the argumentum ad superbiam, or, an appeal to pride. I want to think that I’m capable of things that are in fact beyond me. I want to believe that I’m some sort of super-hero or Herculean demigod who can brush his teeth so well that he never has to brush them again.

The problem with the standard isn’t that it’s too high; the problem is that the standard is impossible. It’s not a proper human standard. It doesn’t conform to reality.

And this is the case even with the more apparently plausible expectations I have: that I should be able to write a stunning blog post in less than half an hour every day of the week; or that I should be able to act with perfect charity toward all my friends and family all the time without ever giving offense. Jesus Christ himself gave offense to many of his friends and family (and never, ever, wrote even a fair-to-middling blog post); so who am I to believe I can do better?

Correcting my standards

This is not to say I should just give up and allow my slacker instincts to take over. But it is to say that there are options besides attempts at the impossible and giving up in despair.

I don’t need to lower my standards; I simply need to trade my impossible fantasy standards for genuinely human ones. As I’ve said before, the core of virtue is getting in touch with reality.

So, rather than beating myself up because I’ve been unable to compose the most brilliant blog post for the beginning of 2011 on the whole internet, I need to remind myself that writing even a bad blog post is good for my psyche – and might actually help someone out there. Rather than despairing because, if I vacuum the carpet it’ll just need another vacuum in a week or two, I can recognize that vacuuming regularly makes my apartment more amenable to guests. Rather than ignoring my friends, I can accept their forgiveness for the times I’ve hurt their feelings, and continue to seek what is good for them as best I know how.

And I can practice this sort of reminder, building up a habit of seeing real goods that are really present – or possible – rather than focusing on the impossibility of impossible “goods”. I can do something from my list of things to do, and I can build that into a good habit, a small kind of virtue. Perhaps it’s the virtue of prudence. Perhaps it’s the virtue of hope.

The tough thing for me is to fight discouragement. There’s a part of me that just plain wants to give up, because I think I’ll never actually succeed at anything I try. That’s a lie, but it’s an easy lie for me to buy into at times.

If only Ginger Rogers had some words of wisdom …

Perhaps the snazzy tux would help, too?

In any case, it’s good to remember that this is just a tough time of year for so many reasons. Great progress might not be possible. But even small progress is progress. And some days small progress turns out to be great progress.

The virtue here, of course, is hope: the firm confidence in a future good. My temptation is to despair of that future good. What I need is the reminder that it’s really good, even if it’s not here and now. It’s difficult for a guy who likes his instant gratification to be both instant and gratifying; but it’s not impossible. It just means I have to, well, pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.

Classical virtue - very classy

I was talking with a friend this weekend, and she said that she was a little confused when she first visited my blog because it wasn’t clear what kind of virtue I was talking about. So I took another look at the page, and I realize that the words “classical” and “cardinal” are entirely missing from the page.

I’ll rectify that soon, but in the meantime I realized that it never hurts to take another look at the big picture.

The classical virtues

The main reason I’m writing this blog is as a kind of public self-improvement exercise. I’ve found that the classical philosophy of virtue describes my strengths, my faults, and my potential. It also gives a very practical structure to work on overcoming my weaknesses and to work toward my potential.

These virtues are traditionally grouped under the four “cardinal” virtues and the three “theological” virtues:

• Cardinal virtues
  • Prudence, AKA Wisdom
  • Justice
  • Fortitude, AKA Courage
  • Temperance, AKA Self-control
• Theological virtues
  • Faith
  • Hope
  • Charity, AKA Love

Each of these virtues describes a different way to achieve a certain excellence or fulfillment of human life. They are ways to become more human, and more humane.

Habits of life

A virtue is a habit of life, that is, it is an inclination to live and act easily and effectively. It’s not a “natural” inclination, in that no one is born with it. We acquire the virtues, mainly by practicing the kinds of actions associated with them. For example, I develop an inclination to courage by taking standing fast in the face of danger and difficulty, even when I am terrified; as I grow in courage, I find that facing danger is easier and less intimidating – if not actually less frightening. I grow in both confidence and ability.

On the other hand, a virtue is exactly a “natural” habit because it is fulfills my nature as a human person. It is part of human nature to grow, to develop, to learn, to interact with other people, and so on. Virtues are the habits of living a fully human life: wisely, justly, lovingly. Practicing virtue helps me to become more myself.

It is something like the habit of playing a musical instrument: at first, the actions don’t feel natural; but with practice, they become a kind of “second-nature”. Playing music becomes easy and enjoyable. Virtues are habits that apply, not just to a single activity like music, but to every aspect of life.

Vice

A vice is essentially a bad habit: it is an inclination to act less than human, or even contrary to human nature. We all have them. My own main vice (as far as I can tell) is sloth: I’m lazy, and I also tend to be skeptical about whether something is worth doing. It takes a lot to get me moving. This means that I spend a lot of time and energy complaining or looking for escapist entertainment rather than actually facing reality or doing something positive.

Generally speaking, every virtue has at least two vices: too much and too little. Taking courage as an example again, it’s possible to be too timid, or to be to rash. Courage is bold, but not brash; it’s cautious, but doesn’t hesitate.

Overcoming vice and growing in virtue go hand in hand.

That whole “theological” thing

The “cardinal” virtues were taken for granted by the ancient Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle, and it’s possible to find similar ideas in most ancient cultures. In the middle ages, Christian philosophers like Thomas Aquinas added three “theological” virtues mentioned in the Bible. These virtues are acquired, not only by practice, but by a gift from God.

I include them in this blog, not because I want to push a Christian agenda, but because I think there is a natural aspect to these virtues that fills out the cardinal virtues. Love resolves the conflict between justice and mercy, hope gives purpose to courage and temperane, faith extends rational prudence into deep relationships.

That said, I’m a practicing Catholic myself, and many of the people I read approach these virtues from a Christian point of view. It would be silly to try to hide that. My goal, though, is to propose rather than to impose, to share the wisdom I’m learning without expecting it to be the final word.

"Have you read my new book?"

I just returned from breakfast with George Weigel – he happened to pick my table to sit at – who was this morning’s speaker for the Catholic Professionals of Seattle. The basic gist of his talk was to promote his newest book: The End and the Beginning, which is a “sequel” and a completion of his 1999 biography of Pope John Paul II, Witness to Hope.

There was a bit of cold war spy drama, and a bit of “Lifestyles of the Holy and Famous,” and a bit of Vatican inside baseball; but one detail from his presentation jumped out at me. He said that he took part of the structure of his book from the process of canonization – the Catholic Church’s process of declaring someone a saint. One of the stages asks witnesses to describe the potential saint’s life in terms of the theological and cardinal virtues: Faith, Hope, and Charity; Prudence, Justice, Courage, and Temperance. Mr. Weigel noted, as an aside, that it’s an interesting exercise to look at life through the lens of the virtues, but that most people don’t do it.

A life out of focus

The virtues really form the only lens that has been able to bring my own life in to focus. But I only stumbled upon them by accident, myself. The classical model of virtue runs almost directly counter to most of twenty-first century American culture.

Now, Americans tend to value daring, or initiative, or valor; and that quality is similar to courage. Americans appreciate cleverness and foresight; those are certainly aspects of prudence. And it goes almost without saying that Americans are passionate about rights, which are a part of the virtue of justice.

However, American culture takes these values for granted, as a collection of qualities whose importance is assumed to be self-evident. In fact, it’s a kind of jumble that ultimately serves another purpose: one’s own interests.

Following the more-or-less normal course of life, I always found myself confused: should I take a risk or should I follow the safe course? Should I insist on my rights or make sure I’m not trampling someone else’s? Should I pursue my own interests or those of my employer/family/country?

Putting life in focus

When I discovered the idea of the virtues, I finally found a principle to help me answer all those questions. Like putting on my glasses, it brought all the fuzzy shapes into focus, and I could see more clearly what to do – and, more importantly, why to do it.

The virtues depend on one another. Love, or Charity, shows us what is good, and drives us to pursue it. Prudence shows us what is real, and sorts out the details of the situation as it really exists. These two virtues form the bedrock and cornerstone of our lives.

Justice and Faith both guide us in knowing what to do: we give to everyone what belongs to them, and we recognize them as fellow children of God, infinite in dignity and worthy of profound respect. These virtues form the framing structure that gives shape to our lives.

Hope, Courage, and Temperance all give us the strength or the stamina to follow through on the loving and prudent actions that Justice and Faith guide us to do. They support us in the face of despair, or fear, or temptation. They are like cross-braces that give a building strength and stability.

Taken together, the virtues describe the whole form of a person’s life.

An end and a beginning?

As Mr. Weigel points out in the life of Pope John Paul II, the virtues allow us to understand the depth and complexity of a man whose actions sometimes appeared confusing or contradictory to American eyes.

But I find virtue is as important at the beginning of each day as it is at the end of a life. I ask, how can I understand my own life; and how can I bring it to be the best life I can carry out, the kind of life I was created to live?

Words do not suffice

My aunt recently passed away after a long battle with breast cancer. Needless to say, her death has affected the entire family, but my uncle and cousins most of all. Now, our whole family tends to meet difficulty with humor, so there’s been lots of laughter; but I’m sure when I’m not around to see it, there are tears as well.

Still, they put what’s called “a good face” on the matter. At the funeral, we sang songs like “Rejoice and be glad,” and at the reception the line was, “She wanted it to be a joyful occasion.” And she did. I think she wanted a celebration of life.

Being a Christian, I see a certain reason in that: there’s hope for a greater joy in heaven than there ever was on earth. Even from a purely natural perspective, there’s a certain gratitude for all the good that she brought to our lives: her sharp wit and quick smile and constant love as a wife and mother.

But the loss is real. I remember a few years ago when one of my best friends was diagnosed with cancer; she’s currently in remission and is doing well, pursuing a career and so on. But there was a stark moment for me when I realized that I couldn’t take her for granted, that at some point she might be gone from this world. And if I felt like a piece of myself was being torn away just at the possibility of losing my friend, I can’t imagine what my uncle and cousins must be enduring at the real loss of my aunt.

The problem of evil

It’s times like this that, philosophically, the so-called “problem of evil” comes to the fore. How can we understand, or explain, or just deal with the painful and grievous events that happen every day in the world around us? Whether it’s disease and death, or inhumane crime, or natural disaster … where does it come from, and what does it mean for how we live our lives?

Voltaire (to grossly oversimplify) suggested that we simply “cultivate our own gardens,” that is, do the best we can with what we’ve got, and not pretend the world is any better than it is. It’s a kind of detachment from those things that are beyond our ability to control.

Buddhism goes even further, if I understand it rightly. It advocates a radical detachment from all things, good and evil. For even good always leads to evil, when it is lost. So if we avoid attachment to all things, we will never have cause for grief. Both these approaches share the great insight that good things, good people, are ultimately limited and vulnerable. They fail to meet that unlimited longing for good that lives within our hearts.

But their solutions strike me as, well, cowardly. Grief, at least, has the courage to stand in the face of loss and acknowledge just how good this person, this relationship, is that has been lost. Grief is the act of love in the face of loss.

The “problem” of goodness

I think it goes deeper still, though. Grief demonstrates that our very awareness of evil is dependent on the existence of good. It is very possible to experience good without evil, such as on a wedding day when even clumsiness and tears are causes of joy; but it is impossible to experience evil without good. No one would attend a funeral unless the one who has died was a great good in their life.

It’s easy to answer, where does evil come from? It comes from the loss of something good. The greater question is, where does good come from?

How is it possible that wonder and beauty and joy and a profound connection between persons enters into the world? Why do I experience a painting (a mere arrangement of colored globs) or a gesture (a simple mechanical motion) or a person (just another animal, after all) as something that gives meaning to life, that organizes my priorities, that I can only describe as “good”?

This is the great mystery of life, it seems to me. And it is a mystery that is celebrated rather than solved, celebrated even in times of loss and grief.

House and Cuddy, clearly in love

Among my many addictions is the TV show “House, M.D.” (available here on Hulu). For those not similarly addicted, the show revolves around a genius doctor, Gregory House, who refuses to play by the rules – either medically or socially. He’s also addicted to Vicodin. He would have been fired, friendless, and finished long ago if not for the codependent friends who surround him his incredible genius.

It would take too long to bring non-watchers up to speed, so suffice it to say that the show is really soapy, and that a major theme has been that House has a crush on his boss, Lisa Cuddy. But, like a bully in the schoolyard, he shows his affection with meanness.

For reasons beyond my kenning, Cuddy ended the last season by confessing her love for House. The new season began with them taking a day off of work to, um, cuddle in House’s apartment. Great soap opera stuff. But toward the end of the episode, House told her, “This isn’t going to work.” Why? Because, he said, I’m never going to change. I’ll always be the vindictive, manipulative, irresponsible, misanthrope that audiences love to hate.

Cuddy had a great come-back: “I don’t want you to change.” Then she kissed him. *aww…*

Okay, have you wiped away your tears yet?

Good. Because they’re both wrong – at least as far as human beings go.

The more things change…

The fact is, we’re always changing. Some changes we can control: for example, I can choose to ride my bike rather than drive my car today. Other changes are beyond our control: I can’t choose whether to have my appendix burst or whether I get hired at that job I applied for.

Some changes are harder than others: changing my habits of eating are very difficult to change, and require an active effort of mind over a long period of time. Changing the way I respond to people who annoy me requires both a strong desire and the quickness of mind to catch myself before I utter than snarky remark.

However difficult, such changes are possible. But some changes catch me entirely off guard. When I was a kid, I was a huge fan of processed cheese. Now I can’t stand the stuff. On the other hand, I used to hate the taste of tomatoes, but now I’m a big fan – except for ketchup which still makes my tongue curl.

The point is: change is inevitable. The change I can control is how I deal with the changes that are beyond my control.

… the more things stay the same

That said, it’s always the same “thing” that undergoes the change: me. I am the same person who used to hate tomatoes and love processed cheese. I am the same person who used to weigh 150 pounds – or, for that matter, 8 pounds 11 ounces. And my ability to change is restricted by the fact of who and what I am.

I am, first off, a human being. Any attempt to live in some other way, as a plant or as a space alien, will only cause the kind of change called “damage.” I’m also a bookish nerd with a weak back and knees. I’ve tried both playing football and digging ditches; both resulted in unexpected injuries, because my body just isn’t built for those kinds of activity.

My mind, on the other hand, can’t stop asking the sort of questions that drive other people crazy. (A friend visited my apartment for the first time and commented on my bookshelf: “Did you really read The Illiad and The Odyssey for fun?” Well, yes – but only in English translation.) So it’s natural for me to focus my energy on learning and passing on what I’ve learned.

Indeed, it would be unnatural for me to repress that drive in myself, just as it would be unnatural for my athletic friends not to go out for six-mile runs or for my gregarious friends not to check Facebook and call their friends twice a day.

Virtue – mainly the virtue of prudence – lies in recognizing what will change, what can’t change, and then choosing how to live in the midst of it all.

Is this what virtue looks like? I don't think so!

In a comment on a previous post, Paul writes:

I looked up a contemporary definition to establish a framework as to what is virtue. Then I had to wonder “is virtue, in the ‘doing good easily and often’ practicable and important?”. Morality yes but virtue, I’m undecided. Can one use virtue to navigate the world as it exists? There are a lot of instances in business, social interactions, maintaining or improving ones place within a civilization in which a virtuous person would be vulnerable to all kinds of abuse, deception and repression. Is virtue a weakness?

This is a great question. But in order to answer it well, I’ll have to ask Paul a question right back.

What, in your mind, is the difference between morality and virtue?

I ask this because you seem to place them in very different categories. In the tradition I’m writing from, Thomist Catholicism, that difference doesn’t make much sense. Morality is the theory, and virtue is the practice. “Morality” is the word for how we recognize good (and evil) and “virtue” is the word for how we do what is good (and avoid what is evil). So, when you say, Morality yes but virtue, I’m undecided, I’m not sure I follow your meaning.

Virtue and vulnerability

That said, I think I can speak to the question of whether virtue (or moral behavior) makes a person weak or vulnerable. The short answer is: Yes.

But yes only in a sort of tunnel-visioned way. Virtue opens someone to attack or harm from one small and specific direction: injustice.

In chess or poker, in love or war, if you play fair and others cheat you will suffer harm. You will probably lose the game. But you will save your dignity.

One of the oldest sayings of philosophers is that it is better to suffer evil than to commit evil. And that’s what’s really going on here: if you refuse to commit evil, if you cling to what is good, then odds are that someone will try to commit some evil against you. It might be as small as a white lie or as big as theft, adultery, or murder. And it’s possible they’ll succeed.

Strength to endure whatever may come

However, from the broader perspective of a whole human life, virtue is exactly what gives a person the strength to endure injustice rather than to be broken by it. After all, one of the first lessons of virtue is that life ain’t fair. We’re confronted by all the same “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” that tempted Hamlet to suicide and that tempt me to sloth, but that motivate the truly virtuous to rise to the challenge and stand fast in their humanity.

Whether those challenges come from a natural disaster or from the unjust acts of another person, virtue enables a person to prudently sort out the real dangers and the genuine options; to respond in a just and even loving manner; to take those actions courageously despite the hardship or danger; and to temperately refrain from the easy escapes that tempt us (well, me, at least) to avoid facing the sea of troubles in our lives.

Those easy escapes are the sorts of thing that work well for a moment, but have lasting consequences: the quarter-by-quarter greed of Wall Street, the comfort of vegging with a bowl of ice cream or a TV show, the awkward dodge of a white lie. As far as I can see, it’s only virtue, which endures suffering and injustice in the short term, that enables a person to remain true to him-/herself and to avoid the even worse consequences of vice.

No man is an island ... not even one as cool as this one

In a Church as big as the Catholic one, there are thousands of little corners of spirituality. A friend invited me to check one of them out, a group called Communion and Liberation, and basically they spent about an hour discussing the reflections of one of the group’s leaders.

The passage they read that evening concludes with the reflection that, we sometimes flee from reality because it is too overwhelming. It describes this as “loneliness, which is nothing but inability to face reality.”

Are we really supposed to face reality?

Now, there’s lots to argue with here, especially for a contrarian like myself. I mean, is this really the best definition of loneliness? But I have to admit that loneliness strikes me most when I’m feeling overwhelmed, like I just can’t face life anymore – at least, I can’t face it alone.

And it occurred to me that maybe, if human nature is inherently social, if I am really not fully human unless I’m engaged in relationship with other people, I’m not supposed to face reality alone. Maybe it’s just the way things are, maybe even the way things are supposed to be, that life is too big and too difficult and too confusing for me to deal with.

In other words, maybe my frustration, anger, fear, sadness, and loneliness come from a false assumption: that I’m supposed to be somehow entirely self-sufficient, that I’m somehow big enough to face reality on my own.

Facing reality with a friend

Now, I’ve been blessed with some of the finest friends in all of history. Not only do they put up with my endless noodling through abstract ideas and my needless nitpickiness about the exact etymological meaning of words, not only do they agree to see the tedious movies I want to watch and play the tedious games I want to play, not only do they eat my cooking with no greater objection than adding a bit of salt, but they constantly teach me new things about the world and how to live in it.

In fact, every time I’ve found myself really able to face some piece of reality that’s getting in my face, whether it’s a burnt piece of toast or the loss of a job or the prosecution of an unjust war, it’s only been because of a friend. Left to myself, I curl up into a ball in the darkest corner I can find. But with a friend by my side – or even on the long end of a phone line – I find a strength and a resilience that is greater than I possess in myself.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.